Islam is not a religion of terror, nor does extreme Islam have a monopoly on terrorists.
Our inclination in the West is to equate terrorism with Islam. I don't know why that is, most of the stuff I've learned about Islam in church is about as accurate as, well, most of the American history I've heard in church. Christianity also has a history of terrorism. Consider the lengthy history of fighting and riots between Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland.
Consider also the Christian terrorists here in America. The most obvious example is the Ku Klux Klan, but there are extremists in the pro-life movement who see nothing wrong with killing abortionists and bombing clinics. As with the asterisks who have been sending anthrax to public figures the past week, these asterisks are doing it for the glory of God and believe that they will be rewarded in heaven for what they have done. I've even heard a few of them called martyrs.
Extreme devotion to Christ is an excellent thing, but one would think they would follow Christ's methods if they're going to call themselves his followers. Can't think of anyone he killed.
As to the other point, it's true the Quran has some harsh penalties: thieves' hands are cut off, liars' tongues are removed. Of course, the Bible also prescribes pretty harsh penalties: disrespect your parents, get stoned to death; commit adultery, get stoned to death; perform a homosexual act, get stoned to death; build a house that collapses and kills its owner's son, your own son is put to death; eye for eye, tooth for tooth, blow for blow, and burn for burn.
Of course, we explain that that's not what God REALLY wants from us. God forbid we allow Muslims the same luxury with the Quran.
Thursday, October 18, 2001
A brief aside about commercials
I always find commercials somewhat annoying that feature two people discussing a deeply personal problem -- incontinence, a weak bladder or impotence -- when one of them pulls out the product and starts talking about it. Worse, they're usually in a highly visible setting: a restaurant, a party, or something similar.
A few ad reps have handled it with class by poking fun at the ad convention; i.e., the wife begins talking about how her husband handled his incontinence with Wonder Brand Medicine, and he responds how you would expect in such a situation, "Geez, do you always have to embarass me with these stories?" or other people nearby start looking very uncomfortable and leave suddenly.
A few ad reps have handled it with class by poking fun at the ad convention; i.e., the wife begins talking about how her husband handled his incontinence with Wonder Brand Medicine, and he responds how you would expect in such a situation, "Geez, do you always have to embarass me with these stories?" or other people nearby start looking very uncomfortable and leave suddenly.
Friday, October 12, 2001
kosher laws
Taken from a post at CHRefugee, where someone asked about Christians and the kosher laws. Reposted here just because I like the thinking that went into it.
Heck, if someone wants to keep the kosher laws, you're probably not going to be able to dissuade them. More power to 'em. Keeping kosher is actually a pretty healthy way to eat and to live, but for your own edification, and because you asked politely, here are a few verses that satisfy me on my freedom from the dietary laws -- actually on pretty much the whole shebang:
The church council in Jerusalem also settled the issue of Gentiles following the Torah in its letter to the Gentile churches:
Remember that the Torah and all its dietary restrictions came to the Jewish people at the time of Moses. There is no reason to believe that Abraham observed the kosher laws, although it is possible that some of those laws developed during the period of Israel’s enslavement to Egypt and later received divine sanction after the exodus. In any event, the Scriptures are quite clear that we can eat pork and shellfish — that we can even eat pork roll and cheese on a bagel — and have a solid relationship with God.
In another of his letters, Paul has the following to say specifically about food:
Heck, if someone wants to keep the kosher laws, you're probably not going to be able to dissuade them. More power to 'em. Keeping kosher is actually a pretty healthy way to eat and to live, but for your own edification, and because you asked politely, here are a few verses that satisfy me on my freedom from the dietary laws -- actually on pretty much the whole shebang:
Peter went up on the roof to pray. He became hungry and wanted something to eat, and while the meal was being prepared, he fell into a trance. He saw heaven opened, and something like a large sheet being let down to earth by its four corners. It contained all kinds of four-footed animals, as well as reptiles of the earth and birds of the air. Then a voice told him, "Get up, Peter. Kill and eat."While this is part of the passage dealing with God calling on Peter to take the gospel to the Gentiles, note that the vision specifically deals with food. In fact, it's only after Peter accepts that the dietary restrictions have been superceded that he's willing to visit the house of Cornelius.
Surely not, Lord!" Peter replied. "I have never eaten anything impure or unclean."
The voice spoke to him a second time, "Do not call anything impure that God has made clean."
— Acts 10:9-15
The church council in Jerusalem also settled the issue of Gentiles following the Torah in its letter to the Gentile churches:
We have heard that some went out from us without our authorization and disturbed you, troubling your minds by what they said. So we all agreed to choose some men and send them to you with our dear brothers Barnabas and Paul ... It seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us not to burden you with anything beyond the following requirements: You are to abstain from food sacrificed to idols, from blood, from the meat of strangled animals and from sexual immorality.Of course, that didn't satisfy the group Paul called the Judaizers, and in several epistles he was forced to address the issue himself. One of his more strident passages says:
— Acts 15:23-20
You foolish Galatians! Who has bewitched you? Before your very eyes Christ was clearly portrayed as crucified. I would like to learn just one thing from you: Did you receive the Spirit by observing the law, or by believing what you heard? Are you so foolish? After beginning with the Spirit, are you now trying to attain your goal by human effort? Have you suffered so much for nothing -- if it really was for nothing? Does God give you his Spirit and work miracles among you because you observe the law or because you believe what you heard?In other words, observance of the Torah — including dietary law — is not required of a believer; we are expected to live by faith and the Spirit, which frees us from being enslaved to doing "the right thing." Put another way: I push all the little old ladies in front of cars that I want, rob all the banks I want, and have all the adultery I want. Of course, when you are living by faith and the Spirit, none of those things should appeal to you very much.
Consider Abraham: "He believed God, and it was credited to him as righteousness. Understand, then, that those who believe are children of Abraham. The Scripture foresaw that God would justify the Gentiles by faith, and announced the gospel in advance to Abraham: "All nations will be blessed through you." So those who have faith are blessed along with Abraham, the man of faith.
All who rely on observing the law are under a curse, for it is written: "Cursed is everyone who does not continue to do everything written in the book of the Law." Clearly no one is justified before God by the law, because "The righteous will live by faith." The law is not based on faith; on the contrary, "The man who does these things will live by them." Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us, for it is written: "Cursed is everyone who is hung on a tree." He redeemed us in order that the blessing given to Abraham might come to the Gentiles through Christ Jesus, so that by faith we might receive the promise of the Spirit.
— Galatians 3:1-12
Remember that the Torah and all its dietary restrictions came to the Jewish people at the time of Moses. There is no reason to believe that Abraham observed the kosher laws, although it is possible that some of those laws developed during the period of Israel’s enslavement to Egypt and later received divine sanction after the exodus. In any event, the Scriptures are quite clear that we can eat pork and shellfish — that we can even eat pork roll and cheese on a bagel — and have a solid relationship with God.
In another of his letters, Paul has the following to say specifically about food:
Therefore, do not let anyone judge you by what you eat or drink, or with regard to a religious fetival, a New Moon celebration or a Sabbath day. These are a shadow of the things that were to come; the reality, however, is found in Christ.As I said earlier, I doubt any of this will change your correspondents’ minds. Generally, when people have made their minds up that strongly, they don’t want to acknowledge the validity of other interpretations and will just get more recalcitrant if you push the issue. My advice is to let them think what they want, and if you’re concerned that they’re in danger of shipwrecking their faith or that of others, that you pray for them. In a truly extreme case, you might want to consider blocking them from the forum, though it doesn’t sound like it’s that bad at this point.
— Colossians 2:16-17
Wednesday, October 03, 2001
The church and single adults
Back when I attended Easton Assembly of God, one of the older church members felt a need to start a singles Sunday school class.
The single adult thing gets tricky. I started calling it the "Poor me, I'm Single" class since it was little more than a support group. I wanted to be involved with someone -- I was maybe 20 at the time, and wouldn't be involved in a serious relationship for another four or five years -- but the entire focus of the "class" was abject self-pity and coping with our "single disability."
Then there's the other extreme. I had another friend who, post-college, joined a "young adults fellowship" in the Allentown that often was little more than a meat market for single Christian folks to check each other out. Jenn insisted it wasn't, but people invariably started attending as unattached and then dropped out once they got involved.
Jenn would never admit it, but Faith Young Adults was a meat market.
Being single means opportunities that married folks don't have. As a single man, I was involved with the children's ministry to the point of helping to write the curriculum for two years running, in addition to a number of other church activities that took a lot of my time. When I graduated from college, I was able to announce to one and all that I was going to the missions field.
Now that I'm married, I don't have the time to write an entire children's church curriculum and I can't just up and take off for a third world nation. I have other duties as a husband and a father.
A single friend of mine who's 34 has the time to volunteer nearly every night at the soup kitchen. She'd like to be married and have kids, but since she's not, Debbee is using the time and energy she has to serve God in other ways.
The single adult thing gets tricky. I started calling it the "Poor me, I'm Single" class since it was little more than a support group. I wanted to be involved with someone -- I was maybe 20 at the time, and wouldn't be involved in a serious relationship for another four or five years -- but the entire focus of the "class" was abject self-pity and coping with our "single disability."
Then there's the other extreme. I had another friend who, post-college, joined a "young adults fellowship" in the Allentown that often was little more than a meat market for single Christian folks to check each other out. Jenn insisted it wasn't, but people invariably started attending as unattached and then dropped out once they got involved.
Jenn would never admit it, but Faith Young Adults was a meat market.
Being single means opportunities that married folks don't have. As a single man, I was involved with the children's ministry to the point of helping to write the curriculum for two years running, in addition to a number of other church activities that took a lot of my time. When I graduated from college, I was able to announce to one and all that I was going to the missions field.
Now that I'm married, I don't have the time to write an entire children's church curriculum and I can't just up and take off for a third world nation. I have other duties as a husband and a father.
A single friend of mine who's 34 has the time to volunteer nearly every night at the soup kitchen. She'd like to be married and have kids, but since she's not, Debbee is using the time and energy she has to serve God in other ways.
Tuesday, October 02, 2001
Billy's appeal lies in what he represents
Someone explain to me why Billy Graham is held up as par examplar of American Christianity.
You can disagree with Falwell, deflate Swaggart and poke fun at Pat Robertson, but if you criticize Billy Graham, an unearthly quiet falls over the room and everyone looks at you in disdain. No one's allowed to disapprove of Billy Graham. His reputation is as pure as sterling silver.
To large extent, he's earned it. Billy Graham has served in ministry longer than most of the rest of us have been alive. He's been an adviser to presidents, he leads massive crusades that are major events in their own right, and he's done all this with no missteps serious enough to be reckoned as a scandal. With few exceptions, he has reserved his influence for the church, and he's been a guidepost for many.
Back when Time magazine was looking for the Person of the 20th Century, there understandably was a big e-mail campaign to have him named.
And yet, for all his reputation, I don't think his influence has been all that great. Everyone's heard of Billy Graham, and has respect for him, but for all the numbers he draws to his crusades, I really have to wonder at the supposed conversion rates attributed to his ministry. From what I've seen, the people who attend his crusades either already are Christians or belong very much to the churched crowd.
Who accomplishes more, the person who keep drawing crowds that already agree with him; or the one who beats the bushes and draws a handful here and there who never would have heard the message otherwise?
Billy Graham's ministry has followed a pattern set at least a century ago and that had held for a generation or two, but is no longer valid for much of the United States.
How many crack addicts and teen prostitutes are going to attend a big revival meeting?
His reputation is relatively clean and free from the scandal that has felled so many others, and there's something to be said for that. But in the final analysis, is he a titan of the faith, or just a very popular preacher because he represents an era that people feel is slipping away?
To large extent, he's earned it. Billy Graham has served in ministry longer than most of the rest of us have been alive. He's been an adviser to presidents, he leads massive crusades that are major events in their own right, and he's done all this with no missteps serious enough to be reckoned as a scandal. With few exceptions, he has reserved his influence for the church, and he's been a guidepost for many.
Back when Time magazine was looking for the Person of the 20th Century, there understandably was a big e-mail campaign to have him named.
And yet, for all his reputation, I don't think his influence has been all that great. Everyone's heard of Billy Graham, and has respect for him, but for all the numbers he draws to his crusades, I really have to wonder at the supposed conversion rates attributed to his ministry. From what I've seen, the people who attend his crusades either already are Christians or belong very much to the churched crowd.
Who accomplishes more, the person who keep drawing crowds that already agree with him; or the one who beats the bushes and draws a handful here and there who never would have heard the message otherwise?
Billy Graham's ministry has followed a pattern set at least a century ago and that had held for a generation or two, but is no longer valid for much of the United States.
How many crack addicts and teen prostitutes are going to attend a big revival meeting?
His reputation is relatively clean and free from the scandal that has felled so many others, and there's something to be said for that. But in the final analysis, is he a titan of the faith, or just a very popular preacher because he represents an era that people feel is slipping away?
Toward a proper understanding of Austrlia
I was an afs exchange student to New Zealand in 1987, the year the All Blacks came forth and conquered in the World Rugby Cup and the Australians only came fourth.
The rivalry between the two nations was pretty palpable, but I never sensed it was anything more than a friendly rivalry.
No doubt the 50,000 or so New Zealand emigrants who take up permanent residence in Australia annually have weighed their options as living in a nation colonized by criminals, versus living in a nation where there exists a real and growing danger of a sheep revolution, and decided it was better with the criminals. The sheep after all outnumber the humans in New Zealand by about 80 to 1.
The reference to the criminal past of Australia refers, of course, to Australia's pedigree. It's well-known throughout the Commonwealth that Britain colonized Australia with hardened criminals -- people from debtors prisons; i.e., people who couldn't afford the excessive taxes being levied at the time. Given the choice of Australia or prison, many of them foolishly picked Australia.
And as everyone knows, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I'll bet most Australians still don't like to pay taxes. We don't, here in America, as the folks in Boston certainly made clear with that little tea party they threw a couple hundred years ago.
The rivalry between the two nations was pretty palpable, but I never sensed it was anything more than a friendly rivalry.
No doubt the 50,000 or so New Zealand emigrants who take up permanent residence in Australia annually have weighed their options as living in a nation colonized by criminals, versus living in a nation where there exists a real and growing danger of a sheep revolution, and decided it was better with the criminals. The sheep after all outnumber the humans in New Zealand by about 80 to 1.
The reference to the criminal past of Australia refers, of course, to Australia's pedigree. It's well-known throughout the Commonwealth that Britain colonized Australia with hardened criminals -- people from debtors prisons; i.e., people who couldn't afford the excessive taxes being levied at the time. Given the choice of Australia or prison, many of them foolishly picked Australia.
And as everyone knows, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I'll bet most Australians still don't like to pay taxes. We don't, here in America, as the folks in Boston certainly made clear with that little tea party they threw a couple hundred years ago.
Monday, October 01, 2001
'Touched by an Angel'
Is it just me, or does the name of the show suggest a possible sexual harassment lawsuit?
My impression of the show is that it for the most part it's a trite and feel-good TV show that has captured the attention of Christians just as "Highway to Heaven" did 20 years ago because of its use of familiar phrases and symbols like God, heaven and angels.
The show does a disservice to angels in the faith by lowering them to our level and turning them into creatures whose sole purpose is to make a tidy little conclusion at the end of the episode every week. Angels appear only rarely in the Bible. When they do, their appearance generally is terrifying rather than beautiful and serene.
When the angel appears to Samson's parents, they fall to the ground, terrified. David sees an angel of God with his sword raised across Jerusalem, and he's struck with fear. When Gabriel appears to Daniel, everyone else runs away in a panic and Daniel himself would have, but he was too weak from praying and fasting for weeks on end. The Apostle John has the same reaction to the angels in his visions at Patmos.
That's not to say angels have to be terrifying. Mary accepted Gabriel's appearance with faith and didn't run away screaming, and the angels who met the disciples and the women at the tomb seemed fairly low-key -- but even so, these cases illustrate another point that shows a problem with "Touched by an Angel" and society's current level of angelmania: Angels don't want attention drawn to them.
In the case of Mary, she responds in faith to God's message; because Zechariah doubts God's promise -- not because he doubts an angel -- he's struck mute for nine months.
It wouldn't make for much of a TV show if every time Monica or Sam or Rufus the Angelic German Shepherd showed up, people fell on their faces in fear or ran away screaming, but there you have it. It would be nice to see just one episode written in that vein.
Perhaps it could be written by Eric Idle or Michael Palin, and it could involve a workplace lawsuit over inappropriate touching.
The show does a disservice to angels in the faith by lowering them to our level and turning them into creatures whose sole purpose is to make a tidy little conclusion at the end of the episode every week. Angels appear only rarely in the Bible. When they do, their appearance generally is terrifying rather than beautiful and serene.
When the angel appears to Samson's parents, they fall to the ground, terrified. David sees an angel of God with his sword raised across Jerusalem, and he's struck with fear. When Gabriel appears to Daniel, everyone else runs away in a panic and Daniel himself would have, but he was too weak from praying and fasting for weeks on end. The Apostle John has the same reaction to the angels in his visions at Patmos.
That's not to say angels have to be terrifying. Mary accepted Gabriel's appearance with faith and didn't run away screaming, and the angels who met the disciples and the women at the tomb seemed fairly low-key -- but even so, these cases illustrate another point that shows a problem with "Touched by an Angel" and society's current level of angelmania: Angels don't want attention drawn to them.
In the case of Mary, she responds in faith to God's message; because Zechariah doubts God's promise -- not because he doubts an angel -- he's struck mute for nine months.
It wouldn't make for much of a TV show if every time Monica or Sam or Rufus the Angelic German Shepherd showed up, people fell on their faces in fear or ran away screaming, but there you have it. It would be nice to see just one episode written in that vein.
Perhaps it could be written by Eric Idle or Michael Palin, and it could involve a workplace lawsuit over inappropriate touching.
Walking away from the Rapture
The Rapture is one of those things I find myself less inclined to believe in than I once did.
The Rapture is what some call the blessed hope of the church. A popular teaching among evangelical and fundamentalist believers, it's an event in which Christians worldwide are removed from the earth in an instant and transported to heaven. This either takes place pre-Tribulation, before the rise of the Antichrist; mid-Tribulation, halfway trough his seven-year reign; or post-Tribulation, immediately prior to the Second Coming and Day of Judgment.
A former Pentecostal, I've been very indoctrinated to believe in the notion of a pre-Trib Rapture followed by the seven years of Tribulation and the millennial reign of Christ. A few years ago, the thought of the third Temple being built would have heralded to me a sure sign of the End being upon us. I admit I do wonder.
But all that aside, I've found that as I've grown further along in my faith, I find myself less inclined to believe in the Rapture, though not in the Tribulation. The Wittenburg Door had had a pretty interesting piece in its last issue about the origins of the doctrines of the Rapture, and interviewed a fellow who traces it to 19th-century Scotland in the midst of massive revival preaching, including sermons by a woman who claimed to have had a vision that Cyrus Scofield later legitimized in his study Bible.
Those who favor a post-Millennial return of Christ -- i.e., one where the church ushers in a thousand-year reign of peace, and then Christ returns -- have never made much sense to me from a biblical doctrine of man's sin and the space the Bible gives to a coming time of wrath. Historically, that movement can be traced to the late 19th century here in America and the sense of the Great Century and America's "manifest destiny."
Overall, though, I find that I don't think about eschatology much any more and try not to worry about it too much. It's more important to focus on the people around us and what we can do to reach them with Christ's love, by volunteering at the food kitchen or giving a cup of water to someone who is thirsty.
The Rapture is what some call the blessed hope of the church. A popular teaching among evangelical and fundamentalist believers, it's an event in which Christians worldwide are removed from the earth in an instant and transported to heaven. This either takes place pre-Tribulation, before the rise of the Antichrist; mid-Tribulation, halfway trough his seven-year reign; or post-Tribulation, immediately prior to the Second Coming and Day of Judgment.
A former Pentecostal, I've been very indoctrinated to believe in the notion of a pre-Trib Rapture followed by the seven years of Tribulation and the millennial reign of Christ. A few years ago, the thought of the third Temple being built would have heralded to me a sure sign of the End being upon us. I admit I do wonder.
But all that aside, I've found that as I've grown further along in my faith, I find myself less inclined to believe in the Rapture, though not in the Tribulation. The Wittenburg Door had had a pretty interesting piece in its last issue about the origins of the doctrines of the Rapture, and interviewed a fellow who traces it to 19th-century Scotland in the midst of massive revival preaching, including sermons by a woman who claimed to have had a vision that Cyrus Scofield later legitimized in his study Bible.
Those who favor a post-Millennial return of Christ -- i.e., one where the church ushers in a thousand-year reign of peace, and then Christ returns -- have never made much sense to me from a biblical doctrine of man's sin and the space the Bible gives to a coming time of wrath. Historically, that movement can be traced to the late 19th century here in America and the sense of the Great Century and America's "manifest destiny."
Overall, though, I find that I don't think about eschatology much any more and try not to worry about it too much. It's more important to focus on the people around us and what we can do to reach them with Christ's love, by volunteering at the food kitchen or giving a cup of water to someone who is thirsty.
Monday, August 20, 2001
A book review of the Bible
The Bible, ghost-written by God, is one of the most interesting books I ever have read. With the assistance of 35 to 40 other writers, God has produced in the Bible what may be the most sweeping and transcendental romance of Eastern literature.
The Bible wastes little time in introducing us to its main character -- God himself, giving the book an autobiographical twist unusual for this genre -- and establishing its essential conflict in the form of a love triangle among God, humanity and other deities, ideals and goods.
From that simple start begins a truly epic tale as God, moved to jealousy when humanity spurns him, is forced nearly to destroy the entire human race at one point before dividing the race into manageable groups and developing a particularly close relationship with the Jewish race through which he intends to reconcile the rest of humanity to himself.
After this relationship begins, the story follows generations of the Jewish people as they alternately honor and dishonor their contract with God. Through it all, although the book is laced with shocking and often graphic pejorative over his loved ones' unfaithfulness, God upholds his side of the contract, and demonstrates the full depth of his love through a personal sacrifice that by the end of the book restores the relationship lost at the start of the book.
The Bible is a curious blend of history and poetry, of human stories and dry philosophy, legal codes and genealogies, prevarications against forms of behavior God deems sinful, and statements so radical and tremendous that they would be sure to transform any society that dared embrace them. (I particularly was impressed with the devotion God shows to the disenfranchised, spending the bulk of his time with people most of his followers wouldn't be caught dead with: prostitutes, the homeless, drunkards, and other unrespectable and immoral sorts.)
It is these thoughts and the strong human element to the divine story -- who can forget the story of Joseph and his brothers, or the courage of Queen Esther? -- that have made the Bible a bestseller and a cornerstone of literature. When God's writing is dry, it is hard to stay awake through it, but when he gets going, the stories will leave an indelible mark.
The Bible wastes little time in introducing us to its main character -- God himself, giving the book an autobiographical twist unusual for this genre -- and establishing its essential conflict in the form of a love triangle among God, humanity and other deities, ideals and goods.
From that simple start begins a truly epic tale as God, moved to jealousy when humanity spurns him, is forced nearly to destroy the entire human race at one point before dividing the race into manageable groups and developing a particularly close relationship with the Jewish race through which he intends to reconcile the rest of humanity to himself.
After this relationship begins, the story follows generations of the Jewish people as they alternately honor and dishonor their contract with God. Through it all, although the book is laced with shocking and often graphic pejorative over his loved ones' unfaithfulness, God upholds his side of the contract, and demonstrates the full depth of his love through a personal sacrifice that by the end of the book restores the relationship lost at the start of the book.
The Bible is a curious blend of history and poetry, of human stories and dry philosophy, legal codes and genealogies, prevarications against forms of behavior God deems sinful, and statements so radical and tremendous that they would be sure to transform any society that dared embrace them. (I particularly was impressed with the devotion God shows to the disenfranchised, spending the bulk of his time with people most of his followers wouldn't be caught dead with: prostitutes, the homeless, drunkards, and other unrespectable and immoral sorts.)
It is these thoughts and the strong human element to the divine story -- who can forget the story of Joseph and his brothers, or the courage of Queen Esther? -- that have made the Bible a bestseller and a cornerstone of literature. When God's writing is dry, it is hard to stay awake through it, but when he gets going, the stories will leave an indelible mark.
Saturday, July 21, 2001
'Jane Eyre': a classic we'd all be better off without
You've probably heard the expression that a million monkeys typing for a million years eventually will reproduce the works of William Shakespeare. I give "Jane Eyre" one monkey, ten minutes. I cannot see reading this book again unless it's the only way to save a terminally ill relative.
This book is a slow read. And I mean slow. A snail? Greased lightning. Molasses on a cold day? Quicksilver. Eighth-period study hall in high school on a Friday? Over in a flash. We're talking a slow, boring read here, even without the benefit of a high school English teacher's enthusiasm for ruining literature.
The novel chronicles the story of Jane Eyre from her childhood as an orphan up until the birth of her first child. Jane's childhood as a 19th-century orphan is so rotten, and she is picked on by the cousins she lives with, misliked and mistreated by her aunt and so on. Unfortunately, Bronte's writing is so dry and lifeless that it's hard to care.
It just gets worse from there. We get to hear every self-pitying thought Jane has (and there are plenty of them), about how plain she is, how her employer Mr. Rochester could never love her, how beautiful her imagined rival in love is, and on and on and on for page after tedious page.
This is both good and original. I will give Charlotte Bronte the benefit of the doubt, and will say that "Jane Eyre" is thoroughly original. Unlike the works of Shakespeare and a number of other classics of English and world literature, it is not good.
This book is a slow read. And I mean slow. A snail? Greased lightning. Molasses on a cold day? Quicksilver. Eighth-period study hall in high school on a Friday? Over in a flash. We're talking a slow, boring read here, even without the benefit of a high school English teacher's enthusiasm for ruining literature.
The novel chronicles the story of Jane Eyre from her childhood as an orphan up until the birth of her first child. Jane's childhood as a 19th-century orphan is so rotten, and she is picked on by the cousins she lives with, misliked and mistreated by her aunt and so on. Unfortunately, Bronte's writing is so dry and lifeless that it's hard to care.
It just gets worse from there. We get to hear every self-pitying thought Jane has (and there are plenty of them), about how plain she is, how her employer Mr. Rochester could never love her, how beautiful her imagined rival in love is, and on and on and on for page after tedious page.
This is both good and original. I will give Charlotte Bronte the benefit of the doubt, and will say that "Jane Eyre" is thoroughly original. Unlike the works of Shakespeare and a number of other classics of English and world literature, it is not good.
Thursday, February 22, 2001
Awaiting the advent of imaginary friends
Imaginary friends are a staple of childhood and are a good indicator of a healthy imagination. I had a few, as I recall.
My younger brother Ward even had an imaginary horse he called Sir Galahad.
I have a daughter who is about 16 months old and just learning to speak in earnest. Her imaginary friends will be welcome in our house any time, even if one of them is named Beezly. I absolutely refuse to disprove his existence, given Beezly’s track record.
I’d be a bit surprised but not alarmed if my daughter one day has an imaginary friend named Beezly. Imaginary friends are just that — imaginary, and only someone a few french fries short of the whole Happy Meal is going automatically to assume that an imaginary friend must be a spirit.
My younger brother Ward even had an imaginary horse he called Sir Galahad.
I have a daughter who is about 16 months old and just learning to speak in earnest. Her imaginary friends will be welcome in our house any time, even if one of them is named Beezly. I absolutely refuse to disprove his existence, given Beezly’s track record.
I’d be a bit surprised but not alarmed if my daughter one day has an imaginary friend named Beezly. Imaginary friends are just that — imaginary, and only someone a few french fries short of the whole Happy Meal is going automatically to assume that an imaginary friend must be a spirit.
Tuesday, November 21, 2000
The holiday traditions we make and teasure
With the holiday season nearly upon us and my daughter’s first birthday now in the recent past, I find myself wondering about the holiday traditions my wife and I will be able to create for her.
Family traditions, after all, are what make some holidays stand out, and others, well, not stand out. They’re why we will make a big deal out of Christmas next month but will notice Presidents Day only if we don’t have anyone in the White House by that time next year, which given the carnival in Florida lately doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.
I find myself wondering what sort of traditions Evangeline will associate with the holidays. Will she grow up with memories of a Christmas tree left up until July? Or will she remember tearing the Christmas wrapping paper from her presents in a disgraceful display of self-indulgence before breakfast, only to realize too late that she’s unwrapped her little brother’s presents and hers are still under the tree?
Christmas is still a little while off, but with Thanksgiving only two days away, I find myself thinking more and more about how my family celebrated Thanksgiving when I was a child.
Thanksgiving always began around 10 a.m. with a bowl of Cheerios and a televised broadcast of the Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York City. After about 23 seconds of nonstop excitement listening to someone talk about the Spider-man float and get her facts wrong, I would tear myself away from the television and join my three brothers at looking for something to do until dinner at 6 p.m.
Einstein once theorized that time slows the faster you go. If that’s the case, my brothers and I must have been traveling at something dangerously close to light speed the entire day. The eight hours between breakfast and utter gluttony were the slowest we ever knew.
Part of the problem was the lack of anything structured to do. The TV schedule consisted mainly of annual holiday specials, and it didn’t take a genius to realize that if George Bailey’s friends had bailed him out for the past six years, they probably would rescue the old deadbeat this year too.
Our chief escape from monotony was to take our dog, a half-Cocker spaniel, half-poodle mix named Fonzi, out for a walk. At first, Fonzi shared in our excitement, just as relieved as we were to get out of the house and do something, and he would jump for joy as we reached for his leash.
But as the day wore on, Fonzi’s enthusiasm would ebb, and by the 4 p.m. "Intergalactic Thanksgiving" cartoon, the poor dog had had enough. One of us would reach for his leash, and Fonzi would jump, and run for cover under the living room sofa, where he would whimper and lick his paw pads.
The ennui was even worse when we visited a relative for Thanksgiving, especially if we had to wear the unbearably stiff dress clothes usually reserved for making us uncomfortable during church Sunday morning.
(We mostly endured those visits, but we actually enjoyed ourselves one year when Ward missed the warning that the punch bowl had been spiked and was only for adults.)
I think Fonzi secretly was relieved to have the house to himself for the day those years, and when we came back home, the hunted expression usually was gone from his eyes .
But eventually, whether at a relative’s house or our own, the waiting would end. Amid building excitement, the turkey would emerge from the oven, cooked to a golden-brown perfection and filled with steaming-hot stuffing the Society of Worry-Warts Who Want to Ruin Your Day now tells us it should have given us all salmonella poisoning.
And then, right on cue, my father would get off the sofa in the family room, walk through the kitchen to pick up the bird, and carry it to the dining room table with the ceremony of someone who has slaved over a hot stove all day to make a perfect meal. My mother, unnoticed, slumped into her chair, exhausted.
The seating arrangements also were fixed. My father sat at the head of the table, where he would put the food on plates and serve it to us. I sat at my father’s right hand, within easy swatting distance, and to my right sat my brother Brian.
At my father’s left, also within swatting distance, sat my younger brother, Ward, sandwiched between our two parents since that was the only way they had found to control him.
My brother Herb, two years older than I, sat at the end of the table opposite our father. Herb, my parents had long since discovered, was far past the point of being controllable, and sat there so that my father couldn’t strangle him during dinner.
We always ate Thanksgiving dinner by candlelight, a tradition that made the holiday all the more magical, particularly since no one could tell when we slipped pieces of yams under the table to Fonzi, who had emerged from the sofa once he was sure this wasn’t another ruse to get him to go on a walk.
In truth, I’m not sure why we ate by candlelight. Part of it could be that every time someone stood up at the table, they would bump the chandelier with their heads and as a result we never had more than half the lights in it working at any given time.
I suspect the chief reason is that in the dark, my parents could pretend they didn’t see us hit each other and could even get in a swat or two of their own and feign innocence.
But it was during dinner that the biggest tradition came. This was a tradition so important that we observed it every holiday without fail. Someone, some time, had to spill a glass of milk.
Herb and Ward usually were exempt from spilling anything since they aren’t big milk drinkers and Thanksgiving dinner was one of the few meals we were allowed to have soft drinks, and I did my best to avoid making a mess. I’ll let you figure out for yourself who usually did the honors, and we’ll leave it that.
Suffice it to say that the tradition of the spilled milk is a duty so sacred that last Thanksgiving, I excused myself from the table to call my brothers in Vermont, Indiana and Maryland to let them know the tradition had been upheld and they could eat their meals free of obligation.
And then, as fast as it had begun, it was over. The lights came up, revealing lots of fresh bruises and we would discover that Fonzi didn’t like yams any more than we did. Soon the table was cleared, the milk was cleaned up, and it was time for dessert.
And so it would go year after year. And so here I am, wondering what traditions Natasha and I will be able to create for our family so they can treasure these special days as they grow older.
And more than that, I’m wondering how we’ll survive the process.
Family traditions, after all, are what make some holidays stand out, and others, well, not stand out. They’re why we will make a big deal out of Christmas next month but will notice Presidents Day only if we don’t have anyone in the White House by that time next year, which given the carnival in Florida lately doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.
I find myself wondering what sort of traditions Evangeline will associate with the holidays. Will she grow up with memories of a Christmas tree left up until July? Or will she remember tearing the Christmas wrapping paper from her presents in a disgraceful display of self-indulgence before breakfast, only to realize too late that she’s unwrapped her little brother’s presents and hers are still under the tree?
Christmas is still a little while off, but with Thanksgiving only two days away, I find myself thinking more and more about how my family celebrated Thanksgiving when I was a child.
Thanksgiving always began around 10 a.m. with a bowl of Cheerios and a televised broadcast of the Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York City. After about 23 seconds of nonstop excitement listening to someone talk about the Spider-man float and get her facts wrong, I would tear myself away from the television and join my three brothers at looking for something to do until dinner at 6 p.m.
Einstein once theorized that time slows the faster you go. If that’s the case, my brothers and I must have been traveling at something dangerously close to light speed the entire day. The eight hours between breakfast and utter gluttony were the slowest we ever knew.
Part of the problem was the lack of anything structured to do. The TV schedule consisted mainly of annual holiday specials, and it didn’t take a genius to realize that if George Bailey’s friends had bailed him out for the past six years, they probably would rescue the old deadbeat this year too.
Our chief escape from monotony was to take our dog, a half-Cocker spaniel, half-poodle mix named Fonzi, out for a walk. At first, Fonzi shared in our excitement, just as relieved as we were to get out of the house and do something, and he would jump for joy as we reached for his leash.
But as the day wore on, Fonzi’s enthusiasm would ebb, and by the 4 p.m. "Intergalactic Thanksgiving" cartoon, the poor dog had had enough. One of us would reach for his leash, and Fonzi would jump, and run for cover under the living room sofa, where he would whimper and lick his paw pads.
The ennui was even worse when we visited a relative for Thanksgiving, especially if we had to wear the unbearably stiff dress clothes usually reserved for making us uncomfortable during church Sunday morning.
(We mostly endured those visits, but we actually enjoyed ourselves one year when Ward missed the warning that the punch bowl had been spiked and was only for adults.)
I think Fonzi secretly was relieved to have the house to himself for the day those years, and when we came back home, the hunted expression usually was gone from his eyes .
But eventually, whether at a relative’s house or our own, the waiting would end. Amid building excitement, the turkey would emerge from the oven, cooked to a golden-brown perfection and filled with steaming-hot stuffing the Society of Worry-Warts Who Want to Ruin Your Day now tells us it should have given us all salmonella poisoning.
And then, right on cue, my father would get off the sofa in the family room, walk through the kitchen to pick up the bird, and carry it to the dining room table with the ceremony of someone who has slaved over a hot stove all day to make a perfect meal. My mother, unnoticed, slumped into her chair, exhausted.
The seating arrangements also were fixed. My father sat at the head of the table, where he would put the food on plates and serve it to us. I sat at my father’s right hand, within easy swatting distance, and to my right sat my brother Brian.
At my father’s left, also within swatting distance, sat my younger brother, Ward, sandwiched between our two parents since that was the only way they had found to control him.
My brother Herb, two years older than I, sat at the end of the table opposite our father. Herb, my parents had long since discovered, was far past the point of being controllable, and sat there so that my father couldn’t strangle him during dinner.
We always ate Thanksgiving dinner by candlelight, a tradition that made the holiday all the more magical, particularly since no one could tell when we slipped pieces of yams under the table to Fonzi, who had emerged from the sofa once he was sure this wasn’t another ruse to get him to go on a walk.
In truth, I’m not sure why we ate by candlelight. Part of it could be that every time someone stood up at the table, they would bump the chandelier with their heads and as a result we never had more than half the lights in it working at any given time.
I suspect the chief reason is that in the dark, my parents could pretend they didn’t see us hit each other and could even get in a swat or two of their own and feign innocence.
But it was during dinner that the biggest tradition came. This was a tradition so important that we observed it every holiday without fail. Someone, some time, had to spill a glass of milk.
Herb and Ward usually were exempt from spilling anything since they aren’t big milk drinkers and Thanksgiving dinner was one of the few meals we were allowed to have soft drinks, and I did my best to avoid making a mess. I’ll let you figure out for yourself who usually did the honors, and we’ll leave it that.
Suffice it to say that the tradition of the spilled milk is a duty so sacred that last Thanksgiving, I excused myself from the table to call my brothers in Vermont, Indiana and Maryland to let them know the tradition had been upheld and they could eat their meals free of obligation.
And then, as fast as it had begun, it was over. The lights came up, revealing lots of fresh bruises and we would discover that Fonzi didn’t like yams any more than we did. Soon the table was cleared, the milk was cleaned up, and it was time for dessert.
And so it would go year after year. And so here I am, wondering what traditions Natasha and I will be able to create for our family so they can treasure these special days as they grow older.
And more than that, I’m wondering how we’ll survive the process.
Tuesday, October 31, 2000
Experiencing God on two wheels
I've decided to give up riding my bike for a while. I've been having too many religious experiences on it.
Don't get me wrong. I'm all for religious experiences. In fact, I've had several of them in my lifetime, including one or two that actually involved God. But I'm not talking about an experience like "Zen and the Art of Schwinn Ten-Speed Maintenance." I'm talking about religious experiences of a wholly different class.
There's certainly nothing about my bike that should make it serve as a magnet for supernatural activity. To the naked eye, it appears to be an unremarkable 21-speed aluminum alloy frame built to endure moderate off-road travel, basically meaning that I should honor signs like "Bridge Out," "Expert Skier Slope" and "Danger: Land Mines."
But you can't fool me. There may be no earthly reason for it, but my bicycle is a greater magnet for spiritual activity than the apartment building Sigourney Weaver lived in for "Ghostbusters."
When I rode my bike to work this summer, I had experiences so spiritual that I practically saw God face to face. Any day now, I expect to come in the door, my face burning with divine glory and my hands holding stone tablets inscribed by the finger of God himself -- assuming I'm not ushered directly into his presence first for all eternity.
The longer commute notwithstanding, there are many physical and psychological benefits to riding a bike to work, and only a few of them involve the humor potential for coworkers when you have an accident in the parking lot. New Jersey, never a state to miss ruining a good thing when the opportunity presents itself, has added another benefit: natural selection.
New Jersey is a state for motorists. If you don't believe me, give it a try. I guarantee that once you take your bike for a spin through New Jersey, friendly-sounding street names like "State Highway Route 206" and signs like "Speed Limit 45" will assume a sinister new gloss.
One stretch of Route 514 in Franklin Township is particularly interesting to bicycle on. The posted speed limit is 45 mph, but this is merely a direct application of Darwin's theories. The road twists and turns so rapidly that trying to manage that speed even in a car is impossible unless you already dabble in the black arts and have offered your next-door neighbor's cat to the Dark Lord.
Bicyclists don't have a prayer. How on earth are you supposed to ride a bike on that kind of road, with cars whizzing by so fast that the wind shear alone doubles your speed? I won't even mention that some cars come so close you can sing along with their radios.
All that said, I find I enjoy the solitary experience of biking, of actually seeing the rows of identical houses with immaculately prim yards and the rabid, slavering dogs that chase me each day. After a while, as fatigue sets in, I don't even notice that my bike leans from one side to the other as I pedal, lurching back and forth like an old sailor whose pegleg has been declared Special of the Month by "Termite" magazine.
But I must cut a lonely figure, and sometimes motorists decide they would rather have me in their front seats. On one particular afternoon, I was already halfway across an intersection when a motorist - let's call him "Bonehead" - stuck his car out so far into the intersection that oncoming traffic screeched to a halt.
As much as I would have appreciated a better view of Bonehead's hood and windshield, I clenched my handbrakes with a grip I typically reserve for the necks of nincompoops in certain favorite fantasies of mine, and in the background heard strains of angels' singing.
But that's not where the story ends. The same thing happened to me a second time less than a mile later, this time with Bonehead's wife. The heavenly music was getting louder now.
The angelic choir burst forth into full rhapsody when I was less than a mile from home, on a stretch of Sandford Street that runs by St. Mary's Church. (A very suitable place for religious experiences, I am told.) The road there is two lanes, with adequate space for parked vehicles or bicyclists.
It is not, however, adequate space for parked vehicles and bicyclists, as I discovered. To ensure that bicyclists don't get any clever ideas about actually riding on the road, the city engineering department measured 300 cars to determine their average width, added half a foot for skinny bikers in case Ichabod Crane ever came that way, and then made the lanes exactly one inch narrower.
I was just passing the statue of Mary when a full host of angels burst into view with a glorious euphony of singing. Behind them was a vast throne, concealed by clouds from which came thunder and lightning.
"You stupid idiot," the angels sang. "Ride your bike on the sidewalk."
Yes, I had had a near-encounter with Bonehead's brother-in-law. If he had had a second coat of paint on his car, I would have had to switch religions in order to appreciate my new oneness with the asphalt.
With my new revelation of knowledge, I have stopped riding my bike principally on the streets, and have taken it a few times onto trails, which I have decided are safer than New Jersey roads.
Even if they do have land mines.
Don't get me wrong. I'm all for religious experiences. In fact, I've had several of them in my lifetime, including one or two that actually involved God. But I'm not talking about an experience like "Zen and the Art of Schwinn Ten-Speed Maintenance." I'm talking about religious experiences of a wholly different class.
There's certainly nothing about my bike that should make it serve as a magnet for supernatural activity. To the naked eye, it appears to be an unremarkable 21-speed aluminum alloy frame built to endure moderate off-road travel, basically meaning that I should honor signs like "Bridge Out," "Expert Skier Slope" and "Danger: Land Mines."
But you can't fool me. There may be no earthly reason for it, but my bicycle is a greater magnet for spiritual activity than the apartment building Sigourney Weaver lived in for "Ghostbusters."
When I rode my bike to work this summer, I had experiences so spiritual that I practically saw God face to face. Any day now, I expect to come in the door, my face burning with divine glory and my hands holding stone tablets inscribed by the finger of God himself -- assuming I'm not ushered directly into his presence first for all eternity.
The longer commute notwithstanding, there are many physical and psychological benefits to riding a bike to work, and only a few of them involve the humor potential for coworkers when you have an accident in the parking lot. New Jersey, never a state to miss ruining a good thing when the opportunity presents itself, has added another benefit: natural selection.
New Jersey is a state for motorists. If you don't believe me, give it a try. I guarantee that once you take your bike for a spin through New Jersey, friendly-sounding street names like "State Highway Route 206" and signs like "Speed Limit 45" will assume a sinister new gloss.
One stretch of Route 514 in Franklin Township is particularly interesting to bicycle on. The posted speed limit is 45 mph, but this is merely a direct application of Darwin's theories. The road twists and turns so rapidly that trying to manage that speed even in a car is impossible unless you already dabble in the black arts and have offered your next-door neighbor's cat to the Dark Lord.
Bicyclists don't have a prayer. How on earth are you supposed to ride a bike on that kind of road, with cars whizzing by so fast that the wind shear alone doubles your speed? I won't even mention that some cars come so close you can sing along with their radios.
All that said, I find I enjoy the solitary experience of biking, of actually seeing the rows of identical houses with immaculately prim yards and the rabid, slavering dogs that chase me each day. After a while, as fatigue sets in, I don't even notice that my bike leans from one side to the other as I pedal, lurching back and forth like an old sailor whose pegleg has been declared Special of the Month by "Termite" magazine.
But I must cut a lonely figure, and sometimes motorists decide they would rather have me in their front seats. On one particular afternoon, I was already halfway across an intersection when a motorist - let's call him "Bonehead" - stuck his car out so far into the intersection that oncoming traffic screeched to a halt.
As much as I would have appreciated a better view of Bonehead's hood and windshield, I clenched my handbrakes with a grip I typically reserve for the necks of nincompoops in certain favorite fantasies of mine, and in the background heard strains of angels' singing.
But that's not where the story ends. The same thing happened to me a second time less than a mile later, this time with Bonehead's wife. The heavenly music was getting louder now.
The angelic choir burst forth into full rhapsody when I was less than a mile from home, on a stretch of Sandford Street that runs by St. Mary's Church. (A very suitable place for religious experiences, I am told.) The road there is two lanes, with adequate space for parked vehicles or bicyclists.
It is not, however, adequate space for parked vehicles and bicyclists, as I discovered. To ensure that bicyclists don't get any clever ideas about actually riding on the road, the city engineering department measured 300 cars to determine their average width, added half a foot for skinny bikers in case Ichabod Crane ever came that way, and then made the lanes exactly one inch narrower.
I was just passing the statue of Mary when a full host of angels burst into view with a glorious euphony of singing. Behind them was a vast throne, concealed by clouds from which came thunder and lightning.
"You stupid idiot," the angels sang. "Ride your bike on the sidewalk."
Yes, I had had a near-encounter with Bonehead's brother-in-law. If he had had a second coat of paint on his car, I would have had to switch religions in order to appreciate my new oneness with the asphalt.
With my new revelation of knowledge, I have stopped riding my bike principally on the streets, and have taken it a few times onto trails, which I have decided are safer than New Jersey roads.
Even if they do have land mines.
Thursday, August 24, 2000
Getting older without getting any wiser
As I write this, I am only a few hours away from the big Three-Oh.
Thirty really isn't that old. I don't feel much older than I did when I was turning 29. And it only seems like a few weeks ago that I was a 10-year-old delivering my "Grit" paper route, telling all my customers that it was my birthday and wondering why I was getting such big tips.
Thirty years old. That's nearly half a human lifetime. That's how old Jesus Christ was when he began his ministry. It's nearly as old as Alexander the Great was when he died. And it's older than Peter Parker is in the "Spider-man" comic books. (But not as old as Batman. Bruce Wayne still has a few years on me, I think.)
And as my brother recently pointed out, if I lived in the world of "Logan's Run," this would be the last day of my life, since the sandmen make sure no one lives past 30. Not even people who thought "Logan's Run" was a tedious movie with effects that make "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" look good.
I don't know why, but something about round numbers makes us take notice. So I sit here, while the dials on my chronometer roll inexorably over to Three-Oh and I slide steadily toward ossification and old age, and I find myself wondering what I would do differently if I could live my life over.
First, I would have sold out sooner. I graduated from college in 1992, just at the start of the longest economic growth period in American history. I spent the next two years living below the poverty line in Haiti, where I rarely had electricity and had hot water even less frequently.
Even after I returned to the United States, I continued to work for a better world, first as a teacher and then as a community journalist. Eight years out of school, I still earn less than $30,000 a year, while friends of mine who graduated five years later are making twice that, with better benefits packages, at businesses like Lockheed Martin Co.
I should have gone for the money and saved idealism and self-fulfillment for my retirement years, like everyone else.
Secondly, I would have spent more time watching TV and surfing the Internet. Nothing is worse than listening to a group of other people talking about the previous night's episode of "Seinfeld" or "Survivor," and not having a clue what they're talking about -- especially when you still think "Gilligan's Island" is the funniest thing on TV.
In the ocean of pop culture, I'm a desert island. I don't understand a thing people talk about anymore.
The computer thing is especially galling. Companies like Yahoo! and Netscape, whose services and programs I use regularly, were founded by people my age who now are multimillionaires (see my earlier comment about selling out). I have only a beginning knowledge of HTML, and absolutely no grasp of JavaScript, although I do think that Usenet is pretty neat.
And what really gets my goat is that only three people who read that last line even remember what Usenet was.
Thirdly, I would have said "I told you so" more often, especially back in college when I frequently expressed the minority viewpoint. What's the point in being vindicated if you can't rub the other person's nose in it?
And lastly, I wish I hadn't eaten that second cheeseburger for lunch today. I could have saved the money to buy myself a Coke later in the afternoon.
If I had done these things, perhaps turning 30 wouldn't be so ominous. If I were rich, it wouldn't matter if saying "I told you so" drove away everyone I stumped at TV trivia. Rich people always have parasites and sycophants hanging about them.
And besides, as a multimillionaire I could have afforded not only the cheeseburger and Coke, but an order of fries as well.
Something to shoot for by the time I turn 40.
Thirty really isn't that old. I don't feel much older than I did when I was turning 29. And it only seems like a few weeks ago that I was a 10-year-old delivering my "Grit" paper route, telling all my customers that it was my birthday and wondering why I was getting such big tips.
Thirty years old. That's nearly half a human lifetime. That's how old Jesus Christ was when he began his ministry. It's nearly as old as Alexander the Great was when he died. And it's older than Peter Parker is in the "Spider-man" comic books. (But not as old as Batman. Bruce Wayne still has a few years on me, I think.)
And as my brother recently pointed out, if I lived in the world of "Logan's Run," this would be the last day of my life, since the sandmen make sure no one lives past 30. Not even people who thought "Logan's Run" was a tedious movie with effects that make "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" look good.
I don't know why, but something about round numbers makes us take notice. So I sit here, while the dials on my chronometer roll inexorably over to Three-Oh and I slide steadily toward ossification and old age, and I find myself wondering what I would do differently if I could live my life over.
First, I would have sold out sooner. I graduated from college in 1992, just at the start of the longest economic growth period in American history. I spent the next two years living below the poverty line in Haiti, where I rarely had electricity and had hot water even less frequently.
Even after I returned to the United States, I continued to work for a better world, first as a teacher and then as a community journalist. Eight years out of school, I still earn less than $30,000 a year, while friends of mine who graduated five years later are making twice that, with better benefits packages, at businesses like Lockheed Martin Co.
I should have gone for the money and saved idealism and self-fulfillment for my retirement years, like everyone else.
Secondly, I would have spent more time watching TV and surfing the Internet. Nothing is worse than listening to a group of other people talking about the previous night's episode of "Seinfeld" or "Survivor," and not having a clue what they're talking about -- especially when you still think "Gilligan's Island" is the funniest thing on TV.
In the ocean of pop culture, I'm a desert island. I don't understand a thing people talk about anymore.
The computer thing is especially galling. Companies like Yahoo! and Netscape, whose services and programs I use regularly, were founded by people my age who now are multimillionaires (see my earlier comment about selling out). I have only a beginning knowledge of HTML, and absolutely no grasp of JavaScript, although I do think that Usenet is pretty neat.
And what really gets my goat is that only three people who read that last line even remember what Usenet was.
Thirdly, I would have said "I told you so" more often, especially back in college when I frequently expressed the minority viewpoint. What's the point in being vindicated if you can't rub the other person's nose in it?
And lastly, I wish I hadn't eaten that second cheeseburger for lunch today. I could have saved the money to buy myself a Coke later in the afternoon.
If I had done these things, perhaps turning 30 wouldn't be so ominous. If I were rich, it wouldn't matter if saying "I told you so" drove away everyone I stumped at TV trivia. Rich people always have parasites and sycophants hanging about them.
And besides, as a multimillionaire I could have afforded not only the cheeseburger and Coke, but an order of fries as well.
Something to shoot for by the time I turn 40.
Tuesday, August 15, 2000
The Internet has provided an easy route to immortality
I wish it hadn't become so easy to attain immortality.
Actual physical immortality is pretty hard to come by. Aside from a half-dozen people in Rhode Island, the only immortal I know of is couch potato Stuart Finnegan of Five Forks, Pa., who got immortality three years ago by eating radioactive banana-flavored Dannon yogurt and who has announced his intention of spending his life watching reruns of "Bowling for Dollars."
For those of us who don't like banana-flavored yogurt, radioactive or otherwise, there is an alternate route to immortality. This usually involves doing things your mother said not to and as a consequence dying prematurely, which, admittedly, takes away some of its charm, but at least people remember you afterward. Like for half a year, if you're lucky.
In the good old days, such feats had to change the course of human history. Alexander the Great conquered the known world. Sir Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin. Alaric the Visigoth brought the Roman Empire to its knees.
For my part, I can't even win a game of Risk without using tactical nuclear weapons to rout my opponent's armies. If I saw mold growing on a Petri dish, I probably would try to hide it before my wife saw it and yelled at me for not doing the dishes.
As for bringing an entire civilization to the point of collapse, that is pretty much the sole province of Congress nowadays. I have come close once or twice just this past week, but I feel guilty if I run five minutes past the limit on the parking meter. I just don't have what it takes to be an anarchist.
What I lack in audacity and skill, I have compensated for in timing. Unlike the larger-than-life villains and heroes of history, I achieved a form of immortality about 10 years ago without even trying. I didn't get any cities named after me like Alexander did, but there are a few directories on web sites and on FTP servers named "David Learn" in my honor.
I was a college student when I discovered the Internet, which in those days was limited primarily to e-mail, listservers and discussion boards called newsgroups. While my peers were developing into full-blown alcoholics, I was on the Star Trek newsgroups, where I soon made my presence known.
I wrote parodies. I wrote fan fiction. I compiled a list of references to Shakespeare within Star Trek. I even posted the first few sections of my honor's thesis on the religious themes of Star Trek. I posted so much that people I had never met knew me by name, quoted me and satirized me.
With the Internet, anyone can be assured of a place in history. When I punched my name into a search engine earlier this month, you probably can guess what I found. Parodies. Stories. Lists. Discussions of whether using the transporter killed people. Debates over whether Kirk was a better captain than Picard. Arguments over whether Lt. Data has a soul.
All of them had my name somewhere, often in the byline. It was as if someone had exhumed all the bodies in my basement and then strewn them across the stage of a twisted production of "This is Your Life."
Given the nature of the Internet, these things likely still will be available if I buy the proverbial farm, kick the proverbial bucket or otherwise end my mortal existence in the next 50 or 60 years. (Please note I said "if." I don't like radioactive yogurt of any flavor, personally, but I'm hopeful I'll find another out.)
There's only one thing I can do to stop this from being my legacy.
Anyone know any civilizations to topple?
Copyright © 2000 by David Learn. Used with permission.
Tweet
Actual physical immortality is pretty hard to come by. Aside from a half-dozen people in Rhode Island, the only immortal I know of is couch potato Stuart Finnegan of Five Forks, Pa., who got immortality three years ago by eating radioactive banana-flavored Dannon yogurt and who has announced his intention of spending his life watching reruns of "Bowling for Dollars."
For those of us who don't like banana-flavored yogurt, radioactive or otherwise, there is an alternate route to immortality. This usually involves doing things your mother said not to and as a consequence dying prematurely, which, admittedly, takes away some of its charm, but at least people remember you afterward. Like for half a year, if you're lucky.
In the good old days, such feats had to change the course of human history. Alexander the Great conquered the known world. Sir Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin. Alaric the Visigoth brought the Roman Empire to its knees.
As for bringing an entire civilization to the point of collapse, that is pretty much the sole province of Congress nowadays. I have come close once or twice just this past week, but I feel guilty if I run five minutes past the limit on the parking meter. I just don't have what it takes to be an anarchist.
What I lack in audacity and skill, I have compensated for in timing. Unlike the larger-than-life villains and heroes of history, I achieved a form of immortality about 10 years ago without even trying. I didn't get any cities named after me like Alexander did, but there are a few directories on web sites and on FTP servers named "David Learn" in my honor.
I was a college student when I discovered the Internet, which in those days was limited primarily to e-mail, listservers and discussion boards called newsgroups. While my peers were developing into full-blown alcoholics, I was on the Star Trek newsgroups, where I soon made my presence known.
I wrote parodies. I wrote fan fiction. I compiled a list of references to Shakespeare within Star Trek. I even posted the first few sections of my honor's thesis on the religious themes of Star Trek. I posted so much that people I had never met knew me by name, quoted me and satirized me.
With the Internet, anyone can be assured of a place in history. When I punched my name into a search engine earlier this month, you probably can guess what I found. Parodies. Stories. Lists. Discussions of whether using the transporter killed people. Debates over whether Kirk was a better captain than Picard. Arguments over whether Lt. Data has a soul.
All of them had my name somewhere, often in the byline. It was as if someone had exhumed all the bodies in my basement and then strewn them across the stage of a twisted production of "This is Your Life."
Given the nature of the Internet, these things likely still will be available if I buy the proverbial farm, kick the proverbial bucket or otherwise end my mortal existence in the next 50 or 60 years. (Please note I said "if." I don't like radioactive yogurt of any flavor, personally, but I'm hopeful I'll find another out.)
There's only one thing I can do to stop this from being my legacy.
Anyone know any civilizations to topple?
Copyright © 2000 by David Learn. Used with permission.
Tweet
Friday, July 28, 2000
Car repairs for dummies, part one: You're not ready for this
I'd like to take this opportunity to clear up a misunderstanding people might have about me. I'm really not that mechanically inclined. Not at all, actually. In fact, I have what you might call a mechanical disinclination.
My latest display of deficiency in the area of mechanics began with car trouble recently. For some reason, my car -- named Bluebeard, though neither I nor it ever has pursued a career in piracy -- for the last four months has been creating more pollution than the entire New Jersey Turnpike. I finally took it to a mechanic three weeks ago when I found a massive yellow puddle under the engine.
Taking my car to the garage for maintenance isn't my first impulse. While in Haiti, I learned the value of knowing how to perform at least routine maintenance on vehicles. It was there I finally learned which end of a screwdriver is useful for turning screws -- the pointy end -- and which is meant for hitting yourself in the head when you realize you just compounded the problem. (The one without the sharp point. Trust me.)
So when I returned from Haiti and bought a Buick Century from my brother, I quickly became acquainted with a ratchet set and a few other tools, and took to changing the oil in my car and performing minor repairs myself. That lasted about a year, until that car met an untimely end in a head-on collision.
At that point, it was time to upgrade to a maroon Chevrolet that required a little more maintenance. After the accident, all that worked on my Buick was the trunk. By coincidence, it seemed the trunk was also all that worked on the Chevrolet.
One of the first major systems to go was the exhaust system, and it went in style. In less than a year, I had to replace the muffler twice, and the intermediary pipe, front pipe and catalytic converter once each.
My neighbors became accustomed to seeing me out in the parking lot with my trusty toolbox, rachet set and screwdrivers. They assumed this meant I knew a lot about cars, but that's not quite true. I was getting very familiar with my car, especially with its exhaust system, which I had to reattach at least twice a week because it kept falling off.
The same summer the exhaust system went, I also had to replace the car's radiator. This ended up being fortunate, although I didn't realize that when it happened. At the time, I was too annoyed at being stuck somewhere on Route 30 in the middle of rural Pennsylvania at 3 a.m. to appreciate how lucky I was.
I learned to appreciate that mishap less than three weeks ago. The mechanic we take our car to listed nearly $1,000 worth of repairs: a new head gasket, repair work to the front axle assembly or something, and a new radiator. At least the trunk still opened and closed.
"Oh, a radiator's easy to replace," remembering that my brother Brian and I had changed the one in Bluebeard in less than 40 minutes back in 1995. "How much will we save if I do that myself?"
My reasoning went like this: Garages mark up the cost of parts, and often charge exorbitant amounts for labor. If I could buy a used radiator and do the work myself, I could save a bundle. My brother Herb repairs his and his wife's car all the time, and saves a small fortune in the process.
(Somehow it escaped my attention that Herb never has any weekends or evenings to himself. They're all spent doing repair work.)
I should mention that my brother Herb is one of those fortunate people who Has A Clue. He's only two years older than me, but when it comes to mechanical inclination, my brother Herb is beyond a shadow of a doubt a more highly evolved life form.
By the time he was 12, he could patch the inner tubes on his bicycle, tighten its chain, adjust the hand brakes and straighten the frame he had bent double by not-quite jumping across Sulfur Creek, all while getting his friends to cut the grass for him.
Compare that to me. Just two weeks ago, I took my bike to a service station because its tires were flat, and stared at the air pump for five minutes before figuring out how to get it to work.
The disparity is pretty severe. Over the past ten years or so, my brother has grown accustomed to getting calls whenever I have a question.
"What's the problem?" he asks in a typical conversation.
"The engine makes loud grinding noises whenever I start the car, and then flames appear unless I put the hood down."
"When's the last time you changed your oil?"
"D'oh!"
Fortunately, radiators are as easy to change as my memories suggested. And if it gets too confusing, I have a Haynes repair manual that explains in plain language everything I need to know about repairing my car.
At least that's the claim the manual makes on the cover.
Directions actually went something like this: "Be sure to reconstitute the osculatory valve before defenestrating the isolinear filtration matrix under the krammer block. You will need a Hackerman wrench for this. See Figure 3A, conveniently indistinguishable from a dead otter, to locate the osculatory valve."
The first step is to flush the coolant system. In a healthy car, coolant is a mixture of antifreeze and water, and is fatal to drink. What came from Bluebeard's radiator looked like a mixture of dijon mustard and water, and probably would have been fatal to touch. It ran yellow for nearly a minute, and then it was time to begin disconnecting things.
Next step was to disconnect the fan, the air filter and a few other things to have unobstructed access to the hoses and clamps. That was no big deal, but once that was done, another obstacle presented itself.
Twin lines run from the radiator to the transmission, and the components that tap into the radiator often have corroded extensively by the time the car is eight years old. We soaked them with Liquid Wrench to get them loose and still managed to strip one.
A stripped nut doesn't come off with a wrench, which meant one thing: time to get the hacksaw and cut the line in two.
It just went downhill from there. Junkyards in the area that sell used auto parts usually would charge about $20 for a used radiator, but no one I contacted had one for my make of car. A parts store I'll call "Zesty Boys" wanted $170 for a new one. I found the same radiator elsewhere for only $87, but I still saw my potential savings going up in smoke.
That Saturday, a week after I brought Bluebeard home, I took my new radiator home and began installing it. It took a little longer than I had expected, and it didn't save me as much money, but it was done.
Or so I thought. Remember that line I had to cut in two? Well, I didn't, and realized my mistake only after I finished installing the radiator and putting everything back together I had dismantled in what I fervently hoped was the right order.
Getting a new plug -- properly called a "line starter" -- became a living nightmare. A nearby garage specializing in radiators didn't carry them at all. A parts store carried them, but not in the size I needed. And the employees at Zesty Boys didn't even know what I was talking about.
"You mean a radiator hose, right?" one worker said, pointing out the one-inch hoses I didn't need.
"Where's this go on the radiator again?" another worker asked.
"You want to buy a new radiator?" suggested a third.
I was starting to get the picture. "I don't think they even know what a car engine is at Zesty Boys," I told a manager at a different parts store who knew what I was looking for but didn't have them.
My final solution was to take the new radiator back out of the car, put it in the box and drive to a parts store to show them exactly what I needed. Total cost for the part: 95 cents.
Time to complete the job: 15 days.
Total savings: $4.23.
You would think I would learn from experiences like this, but the prognosis is doubtful. Just yesterday, I bought a new vent for our dryer. Think how much money we'll save if I put it in myself ...
My latest display of deficiency in the area of mechanics began with car trouble recently. For some reason, my car -- named Bluebeard, though neither I nor it ever has pursued a career in piracy -- for the last four months has been creating more pollution than the entire New Jersey Turnpike. I finally took it to a mechanic three weeks ago when I found a massive yellow puddle under the engine.
Taking my car to the garage for maintenance isn't my first impulse. While in Haiti, I learned the value of knowing how to perform at least routine maintenance on vehicles. It was there I finally learned which end of a screwdriver is useful for turning screws -- the pointy end -- and which is meant for hitting yourself in the head when you realize you just compounded the problem. (The one without the sharp point. Trust me.)
So when I returned from Haiti and bought a Buick Century from my brother, I quickly became acquainted with a ratchet set and a few other tools, and took to changing the oil in my car and performing minor repairs myself. That lasted about a year, until that car met an untimely end in a head-on collision.
At that point, it was time to upgrade to a maroon Chevrolet that required a little more maintenance. After the accident, all that worked on my Buick was the trunk. By coincidence, it seemed the trunk was also all that worked on the Chevrolet.
One of the first major systems to go was the exhaust system, and it went in style. In less than a year, I had to replace the muffler twice, and the intermediary pipe, front pipe and catalytic converter once each.
My neighbors became accustomed to seeing me out in the parking lot with my trusty toolbox, rachet set and screwdrivers. They assumed this meant I knew a lot about cars, but that's not quite true. I was getting very familiar with my car, especially with its exhaust system, which I had to reattach at least twice a week because it kept falling off.
The same summer the exhaust system went, I also had to replace the car's radiator. This ended up being fortunate, although I didn't realize that when it happened. At the time, I was too annoyed at being stuck somewhere on Route 30 in the middle of rural Pennsylvania at 3 a.m. to appreciate how lucky I was.
I learned to appreciate that mishap less than three weeks ago. The mechanic we take our car to listed nearly $1,000 worth of repairs: a new head gasket, repair work to the front axle assembly or something, and a new radiator. At least the trunk still opened and closed.
"Oh, a radiator's easy to replace," remembering that my brother Brian and I had changed the one in Bluebeard in less than 40 minutes back in 1995. "How much will we save if I do that myself?"
My reasoning went like this: Garages mark up the cost of parts, and often charge exorbitant amounts for labor. If I could buy a used radiator and do the work myself, I could save a bundle. My brother Herb repairs his and his wife's car all the time, and saves a small fortune in the process.
(Somehow it escaped my attention that Herb never has any weekends or evenings to himself. They're all spent doing repair work.)
I should mention that my brother Herb is one of those fortunate people who Has A Clue. He's only two years older than me, but when it comes to mechanical inclination, my brother Herb is beyond a shadow of a doubt a more highly evolved life form.
By the time he was 12, he could patch the inner tubes on his bicycle, tighten its chain, adjust the hand brakes and straighten the frame he had bent double by not-quite jumping across Sulfur Creek, all while getting his friends to cut the grass for him.
Compare that to me. Just two weeks ago, I took my bike to a service station because its tires were flat, and stared at the air pump for five minutes before figuring out how to get it to work.
The disparity is pretty severe. Over the past ten years or so, my brother has grown accustomed to getting calls whenever I have a question.
"What's the problem?" he asks in a typical conversation.
"The engine makes loud grinding noises whenever I start the car, and then flames appear unless I put the hood down."
"When's the last time you changed your oil?"
"D'oh!"
Fortunately, radiators are as easy to change as my memories suggested. And if it gets too confusing, I have a Haynes repair manual that explains in plain language everything I need to know about repairing my car.
At least that's the claim the manual makes on the cover.
Directions actually went something like this: "Be sure to reconstitute the osculatory valve before defenestrating the isolinear filtration matrix under the krammer block. You will need a Hackerman wrench for this. See Figure 3A, conveniently indistinguishable from a dead otter, to locate the osculatory valve."
The first step is to flush the coolant system. In a healthy car, coolant is a mixture of antifreeze and water, and is fatal to drink. What came from Bluebeard's radiator looked like a mixture of dijon mustard and water, and probably would have been fatal to touch. It ran yellow for nearly a minute, and then it was time to begin disconnecting things.
Next step was to disconnect the fan, the air filter and a few other things to have unobstructed access to the hoses and clamps. That was no big deal, but once that was done, another obstacle presented itself.
Twin lines run from the radiator to the transmission, and the components that tap into the radiator often have corroded extensively by the time the car is eight years old. We soaked them with Liquid Wrench to get them loose and still managed to strip one.
A stripped nut doesn't come off with a wrench, which meant one thing: time to get the hacksaw and cut the line in two.
It just went downhill from there. Junkyards in the area that sell used auto parts usually would charge about $20 for a used radiator, but no one I contacted had one for my make of car. A parts store I'll call "Zesty Boys" wanted $170 for a new one. I found the same radiator elsewhere for only $87, but I still saw my potential savings going up in smoke.
That Saturday, a week after I brought Bluebeard home, I took my new radiator home and began installing it. It took a little longer than I had expected, and it didn't save me as much money, but it was done.
Or so I thought. Remember that line I had to cut in two? Well, I didn't, and realized my mistake only after I finished installing the radiator and putting everything back together I had dismantled in what I fervently hoped was the right order.
Getting a new plug -- properly called a "line starter" -- became a living nightmare. A nearby garage specializing in radiators didn't carry them at all. A parts store carried them, but not in the size I needed. And the employees at Zesty Boys didn't even know what I was talking about.
"You mean a radiator hose, right?" one worker said, pointing out the one-inch hoses I didn't need.
"Where's this go on the radiator again?" another worker asked.
"You want to buy a new radiator?" suggested a third.
I was starting to get the picture. "I don't think they even know what a car engine is at Zesty Boys," I told a manager at a different parts store who knew what I was looking for but didn't have them.
My final solution was to take the new radiator back out of the car, put it in the box and drive to a parts store to show them exactly what I needed. Total cost for the part: 95 cents.
Time to complete the job: 15 days.
Total savings: $4.23.
You would think I would learn from experiences like this, but the prognosis is doubtful. Just yesterday, I bought a new vent for our dryer. Think how much money we'll save if I put it in myself ...
Friday, July 14, 2000
Ode to the mattress of my heart
Have you ever had a relationship so deep and meaningful that when it ended, you felt as though a part of you had died?
I have. For the past 12 months, Natasha and I have shared our house, our back yard - yes, our very lives - with a mattress called Spring Air. Initially, I admit, we regarded Spring Air as an inconvenience, a twin-size mattress left in the driveway by the house's previous owner, but as time went on, Spring Air came to mean something more. Something special.
It grew on us slowly, but when we threw a housewarming party last July, Spring Air was there, along with some of our best friends from church and from college. It said little, being shy, and it mostly hang out on the side of the house away from the guests rather than mingle with them.
This behavior didn't particularly surprise me. Mattresses are not social creatures, and they rarely spend much time with more than one or two people in the course of their lives. This also probably was its first party, so some bashfulness was to be expected.
But there was no mistaking the sensation it caused. In its own quiet way, Spring Air quickly became a conversation piece among our guests, who invariably revered it as the most unusual piece of patio furniture they ever had seen. Our picnic table and every one of our chairs have been used repeatedly, but not one person dared to use Spring Air for an afternoon nap. Such was the respect we held it in.
In time, Spring Air became something of an attraction, or perhaps a celebrity. People came from Maryland, from Pennsylvania, from Arizona and from Vermont and asked to see the mattress. Ours became known as the only house on the block - perhaps in the city or in all New Jersey -- to have a mattress in the back yard.
Spring Air became like family to us. It stayed with us all summer long and into the autumn. When Hurricane Floyd hit New Jersey last September, destroying communities like Manville and Bound Brook, the mattress stoically braved the elements and protected our house as best it could.
When our daughter was born, Spring Air kept vigil while we were at the hospital. And when we brought Evangeline home for the first time, it was there, waiting for us patiently, and never once reproached me for not telling it when she had been born.
To my knowledge, the mattress never once asked for anything. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's and Easter all came and went, and Spring Air stayed outside on the patio without once asking to come in and dry out.
From time to time, Natasha gently would hint that Spring Air had overstayed its welcome, and she would ask me to escort it to the roadside.
"I think we have to make special arrangements before they'll take it away," I would say as I stalled for time.
And so the days passed. Snow fell, lingered and melted away. Winter turned to spring, and in their turn, spiders, insects and a few species of mold I've never identified made that mattress their home.
Trouble began brewing in the spring. Leaves that had gone unraked over the winter because my time was needed inside with the baby had piled up against Spring Air, and as they rotted around it, the mattress began to make a stink. Its bright colors had faded, and visitors who saw Spring Air began to remark that it should go.
The fateful day arrived early one morning in late May. Walking back from the university one morning, Natasha saw something that sent a thrill up her spine. A homeowner a block away from us had put a queen-size mattress and box spring out on the curb with his regular garbage.
I knew as soon as she told me that Spring Air's days were numbered. Less than a week later, I dragged it out to the curb. Time and the elements had not been kind to our guest. Practically new when we had moved in, it had aged prematurely, and I knew it was time to put it down.
I leaned it against a tree between our house and the one next door in case there was an extra fee associated with leaving oversize items out for collection, and I said my goodbyes.
"I guess this is it," I said. "It's best if you leave tomorrow morning. I don't want the zoning officer to fine us for keeping you outside. It's probably against a city ordinance."
Spring Air said nothing, and wouldn't even look at me. I could tell I had hurt its feelings.
The next morning I watched, misty-eyed, as city workers picked up our departing tenant and threw it into the garbage truck. Even from where I stood, I could feel its resentment as this betrayal.
"I could have stayed forever," it seemed to say sullenly. "See how your flowers and picnic table fare. I never would have biodegraded on you."
I watched as it rode slowly away aboard the garbage truck. It never even tried to look back.
Copyright © 2000 by David Learn. Used with permission.
Tweet
I have. For the past 12 months, Natasha and I have shared our house, our back yard - yes, our very lives - with a mattress called Spring Air. Initially, I admit, we regarded Spring Air as an inconvenience, a twin-size mattress left in the driveway by the house's previous owner, but as time went on, Spring Air came to mean something more. Something special.
This behavior didn't particularly surprise me. Mattresses are not social creatures, and they rarely spend much time with more than one or two people in the course of their lives. This also probably was its first party, so some bashfulness was to be expected.
But there was no mistaking the sensation it caused. In its own quiet way, Spring Air quickly became a conversation piece among our guests, who invariably revered it as the most unusual piece of patio furniture they ever had seen. Our picnic table and every one of our chairs have been used repeatedly, but not one person dared to use Spring Air for an afternoon nap. Such was the respect we held it in.
In time, Spring Air became something of an attraction, or perhaps a celebrity. People came from Maryland, from Pennsylvania, from Arizona and from Vermont and asked to see the mattress. Ours became known as the only house on the block - perhaps in the city or in all New Jersey -- to have a mattress in the back yard.
Spring Air became like family to us. It stayed with us all summer long and into the autumn. When Hurricane Floyd hit New Jersey last September, destroying communities like Manville and Bound Brook, the mattress stoically braved the elements and protected our house as best it could.
When our daughter was born, Spring Air kept vigil while we were at the hospital. And when we brought Evangeline home for the first time, it was there, waiting for us patiently, and never once reproached me for not telling it when she had been born.
To my knowledge, the mattress never once asked for anything. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's and Easter all came and went, and Spring Air stayed outside on the patio without once asking to come in and dry out.
From time to time, Natasha gently would hint that Spring Air had overstayed its welcome, and she would ask me to escort it to the roadside.
"I think we have to make special arrangements before they'll take it away," I would say as I stalled for time.
And so the days passed. Snow fell, lingered and melted away. Winter turned to spring, and in their turn, spiders, insects and a few species of mold I've never identified made that mattress their home.
Trouble began brewing in the spring. Leaves that had gone unraked over the winter because my time was needed inside with the baby had piled up against Spring Air, and as they rotted around it, the mattress began to make a stink. Its bright colors had faded, and visitors who saw Spring Air began to remark that it should go.
The fateful day arrived early one morning in late May. Walking back from the university one morning, Natasha saw something that sent a thrill up her spine. A homeowner a block away from us had put a queen-size mattress and box spring out on the curb with his regular garbage.
I knew as soon as she told me that Spring Air's days were numbered. Less than a week later, I dragged it out to the curb. Time and the elements had not been kind to our guest. Practically new when we had moved in, it had aged prematurely, and I knew it was time to put it down.
I leaned it against a tree between our house and the one next door in case there was an extra fee associated with leaving oversize items out for collection, and I said my goodbyes.
"I guess this is it," I said. "It's best if you leave tomorrow morning. I don't want the zoning officer to fine us for keeping you outside. It's probably against a city ordinance."
Spring Air said nothing, and wouldn't even look at me. I could tell I had hurt its feelings.
The next morning I watched, misty-eyed, as city workers picked up our departing tenant and threw it into the garbage truck. Even from where I stood, I could feel its resentment as this betrayal.
"I could have stayed forever," it seemed to say sullenly. "See how your flowers and picnic table fare. I never would have biodegraded on you."
I watched as it rode slowly away aboard the garbage truck. It never even tried to look back.
Copyright © 2000 by David Learn. Used with permission.
Tweet
Friday, July 07, 2000
In soap operas, the nadir of storytelling
Don Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra once observed that there is nothing so bad that you can't find something good in it.
The worst Cervantes had to contend with was an abundance of trashy stories about knight-errantry. Cervantes never once had to read "Jane Eyre" or, worse, watch a soap opera.
I have. Although "Jane Eyre" thankfully is in my past, for two weeks while I was on vacation, I was subjected twice daily to the modern-day horror called soap operas. Two weeks later, I still am suffering Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder from what I endured. I'll refer to these soaps as "Puerto Carlos" and "Major Hospital."
It's not as though I wanted to watch soap operas on vacation. I tried to do some writing, and I tried to do some reading, but just being in the same room as the TV set was enough to be sullied. It's like the time I played rugby in my school uniform, only I don't know of any laundry detergent that can remove these ugly marks from my psyche, no matter how hard I scrub.
The dreary flicker of the TV, the bad acting, the worse directing and the really terrible writing combined to drag me into the show with the same horrified fascination I feel driving past a car wreck. I couldn't look away no matter how hard I tried.
I was so appalled by what I was watching, I decided to call ABC from a morbid curiosity to know where they get their soap opera writer.. Apparently all the major networks, not just ABC, use a special test to find the right people for major soap-writing jobs. Anyone who has read books for pleasure and not just for a book report, who can name three presidents of the United States in any order, or who knows how to use the word "obviate" in a sentence, is disqualified.
Every now and then, someone with talent does slip through the cracks. When that happens, the networks neutralize them with specially trained directors who pick the most melodramatic facial expressions and postures the actors can assume and let the camera linger painfully for three or four seconds on them at the end of every scene.
Nothing worthwhile of the plot survives.
Did I say there's a plot? My mistake. Plots have a clear beginning, middle and end. Academicians claim there are three basic plots in all literature: man against man, man against himself, and man against God, although in each case the writer has tremendous freedom to define what man is, what God is, and what it means to work against something.
Soap operas lack plots; instead, they have storylines, which also happen to come in a set of three: sleeping with someone, planning to commit murder, and manipulating people. Sometimes the writers will try to get creative by combining the three.
On "Puerto Carlos," one of the storylines I saw involved the disappearance of Luke Stephan, who like everyone else on the show is manipulative and controlling.
As the story unfolds, about 12 minutes after Luke Stephan disappears, the city prosecutor decides he was murdered and immediately arrests Luke Stephan's neighbor Rufus for the crime, judging that the complete lack of evidence is merely proof of Rufus' criminal genius.
As viewers, we of course know that Rufus is innocent of foul play, because he was having an affair with the prosecutor's wife, teen-age daughter and their dog, a German shepherd named Muffie, when the alleged murder occurred. He can't use this as an alibi, because of the harm it would cause Muffie.
About a week later, those clever writers reveal that Luke Stephan simply ran off to use the bathroom when no one was looking.
When he finally finishes using the bathroom, he discovers that the toilet he used is in Paris, France. On his person are 40,000 Mexican pesos and a passport that identifies him as a German shepherd named Muffie.
But in order to lose viewers interested in Rufus' efforts to defend himself from charges of murder and stay free of Muffie's canine machinations, the writers also develop a number of other storylines, none especially relevant to his situation.
At the same time Rufus escapes from jail, Lucille's adopted 1-year-old daughter is kidnapped by her biological mother and taken to Kzakhastan, a woman named Charlie tries to kill the man she blames for her recent miscarriage, and 33 other people plot to take over the world, or at least the board of directors of Major Hospital.
Confusing? That's not even half of it. By the time our vacation ended, Luke Stephan had been thrown into the pound because he didn't have a dog license, Rufus had disappeared to escape being framed, Muffie had bitten the prosecutor on the leg, the kidnapped little girl was found at Walmart in a different set of clothes and with a new haircut, and the entire board of directors of Major Hospital quit when the hospital's snack machine ran out of yellow Zingers.
Now I'm not saying these things don't happen in real life -- although I honestly can't say I know of anyone they've happened to -- but if they happened as regularly in real life as they did on soap operas, Jerry Springer would be out of business.
The worst Cervantes had to contend with was an abundance of trashy stories about knight-errantry. Cervantes never once had to read "Jane Eyre" or, worse, watch a soap opera.
I have. Although "Jane Eyre" thankfully is in my past, for two weeks while I was on vacation, I was subjected twice daily to the modern-day horror called soap operas. Two weeks later, I still am suffering Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder from what I endured. I'll refer to these soaps as "Puerto Carlos" and "Major Hospital."
It's not as though I wanted to watch soap operas on vacation. I tried to do some writing, and I tried to do some reading, but just being in the same room as the TV set was enough to be sullied. It's like the time I played rugby in my school uniform, only I don't know of any laundry detergent that can remove these ugly marks from my psyche, no matter how hard I scrub.
The dreary flicker of the TV, the bad acting, the worse directing and the really terrible writing combined to drag me into the show with the same horrified fascination I feel driving past a car wreck. I couldn't look away no matter how hard I tried.
I was so appalled by what I was watching, I decided to call ABC from a morbid curiosity to know where they get their soap opera writer.. Apparently all the major networks, not just ABC, use a special test to find the right people for major soap-writing jobs. Anyone who has read books for pleasure and not just for a book report, who can name three presidents of the United States in any order, or who knows how to use the word "obviate" in a sentence, is disqualified.
Every now and then, someone with talent does slip through the cracks. When that happens, the networks neutralize them with specially trained directors who pick the most melodramatic facial expressions and postures the actors can assume and let the camera linger painfully for three or four seconds on them at the end of every scene.
Nothing worthwhile of the plot survives.
Did I say there's a plot? My mistake. Plots have a clear beginning, middle and end. Academicians claim there are three basic plots in all literature: man against man, man against himself, and man against God, although in each case the writer has tremendous freedom to define what man is, what God is, and what it means to work against something.
Soap operas lack plots; instead, they have storylines, which also happen to come in a set of three: sleeping with someone, planning to commit murder, and manipulating people. Sometimes the writers will try to get creative by combining the three.
On "Puerto Carlos," one of the storylines I saw involved the disappearance of Luke Stephan, who like everyone else on the show is manipulative and controlling.
As the story unfolds, about 12 minutes after Luke Stephan disappears, the city prosecutor decides he was murdered and immediately arrests Luke Stephan's neighbor Rufus for the crime, judging that the complete lack of evidence is merely proof of Rufus' criminal genius.
As viewers, we of course know that Rufus is innocent of foul play, because he was having an affair with the prosecutor's wife, teen-age daughter and their dog, a German shepherd named Muffie, when the alleged murder occurred. He can't use this as an alibi, because of the harm it would cause Muffie.
About a week later, those clever writers reveal that Luke Stephan simply ran off to use the bathroom when no one was looking.
When he finally finishes using the bathroom, he discovers that the toilet he used is in Paris, France. On his person are 40,000 Mexican pesos and a passport that identifies him as a German shepherd named Muffie.
But in order to lose viewers interested in Rufus' efforts to defend himself from charges of murder and stay free of Muffie's canine machinations, the writers also develop a number of other storylines, none especially relevant to his situation.
At the same time Rufus escapes from jail, Lucille's adopted 1-year-old daughter is kidnapped by her biological mother and taken to Kzakhastan, a woman named Charlie tries to kill the man she blames for her recent miscarriage, and 33 other people plot to take over the world, or at least the board of directors of Major Hospital.
Confusing? That's not even half of it. By the time our vacation ended, Luke Stephan had been thrown into the pound because he didn't have a dog license, Rufus had disappeared to escape being framed, Muffie had bitten the prosecutor on the leg, the kidnapped little girl was found at Walmart in a different set of clothes and with a new haircut, and the entire board of directors of Major Hospital quit when the hospital's snack machine ran out of yellow Zingers.
Now I'm not saying these things don't happen in real life -- although I honestly can't say I know of anyone they've happened to -- but if they happened as regularly in real life as they did on soap operas, Jerry Springer would be out of business.
Friday, June 30, 2000
Face to face with Tombstone's obsession
Vacations are a special event for a family. Done properly, they can create memories for the entire family to share with one another for years to come. Done poorly, they can create memories the family will be sharing with a therapist.
Planning a vacation therefore is an important process. Among the considerations are where to go, how to get there, and whether there is anyone you can stay with to avoid the cost of a hotel. Natasha, Evangeline and I just a week ago returned from our first major vacation as a family. Our answers to those questions, in order, were Arizona, flying and Natasha's mother.
Now many people think of Arizona as a desert state with a lot of sand and a lot of cacti. While that has some truth to it, Arizona also is home to the only pothole in the Union -- The Grand Canyon -- bigger than the one at the corner of Sandford Street and Commercial Avenue in New Brunswick, N.J.
The Grand Canyon is a truly inspiring site, carved through solid rock so we are told over millennia by the Colorado River, which in turn has the most dangerous and exciting rapids to go rafting on.
The colors at the Grand Canyon at sunset defy description. It is as though God creates a new master painting each evening, and when he calls the stars forth one by one, you are humbled to see how amazingly small and finite you really are.
I would go on, but I've never been to the Grand Canyon. Instead, we visited another site Arizona is famous for, the OK Corral. (Not to be confused with that famous church hymn, "The OK Chorale.")
The gunfight at the OK Corral probably is history's best-known and best-loved shoot-out. It's got all the elements of a crowd-pleaser. It's got guns. It's got bullets. It's got dead bodies piled up sky-high. It's got the law fighting the bad guys, and winning. Best of all, it's (relatively) true.
So it's no surprise that the gunfight has appeared in movies like the 1993 film "Tombstone" and the imaginatively named 1957 film "Gunfight at the O.K. Corral," and in episodes of "Star Trek," "Dr. Who" and "Mr. Peabody."
If you believe Hollywood's rendition of Wyatt Earp, the late federal marshal was a hero who fought the cowboy gang and ended the reign of the lawless wealth-makes-right in the Old West.
This is a lie. That was not accomplished until 1985 in Clint Eastwood's "Pale Rider."
Wyatt Earp actually was little different from the Clantons and McLaurys, whom he, his brothers and Doc Holliday, fought at the OK Corral. The chief difference was that the Earps and Doc Holliday had badges. Otherwise, they pretty much were the same kind of thugs as the Clantons, except that Doc Holliday may have been even meaner.
Of course, it's hardly surprising that Hollywood would treat Wyatt Earp less than accurately. After all, "Tombstone" showed Val Kilmer's Doc Holliday firing a 12-gauge shotgun no fewer than three times without reloading, a task only slightly more believable than Gene Kelly getting 30 shots from a six-shooter, Roy Rogers shooting the guns from the desperadoes' hands, or a certain other cowboy actor being elected president.
Ironically, nearly every movie about the OK Corral was filmed, not at Tombstone, but more than an hour away in Old Tucson Studios. Still, Tombstone draws enough tourists that the city government has made it illegal to ask, "What would you like on your Tombstone?" when you are standing in the frozen pizza aisle.
Tombstone has other history outside the Earps, including a haunted mine and two fires that nearly destroyed the town, but everything seems to run back to Wyatt Earp in the end. The ghost story is tied to the basement of Big Nose Kate's Saloon, where "The Legend of the Swamper" is the subject of a free pamphlet. A 17-page booklet about Wyatt Earp (there he is again) and Doc Holliday costs $5.
One clothing store boasts it used to be the saloon where Wyatt Earp (there he is again) ran a gambling table for playing faro. Other places are identified as the office Doc Holliday used while he still practiced medicine, the room where Big Nose Kate lived (the prostitute who also was Doc Holliday's girlfriend), where the Clanton brothers were buried, where Morgan Earp (there's his brother) was killed, and on and on.
Over by the OK Corral is the a photo gallery of work by C.S. Fly, the photographer of the Old West who took the famous pictures we have of Geronimo, the Apache Indians, Tombstone after the fires, other parts of the Old West and Wyatt Earp. (There he is again.)
It got to the point that when I used the bathroom at Big Nose Kate's Saloon (built on the site of the Grand Hotel, where the Clantons and McLaurys stayed the night before the gunfight), I half-expected to see a sign identifying the urinal that Wyatt Earp used when he'd had too much to drink.
It gets overwhelming after a while.
Natasha, her mother, Evangeline and I were in Tombstone for less than a day, but I can't help it. I've developed an obsession with Wyatt Earp. I've told everyone I could about my trip to Tombstone and what I learned about him.
It's not enough. I have an overwhelming compulsion to run out and buy copies of "Tombstone," "Gunfight at the O.K. Corral" and "My Darling Clementine" on video and watch all three of them sequentially and concurrently. I want to buy the movie posters and decorate my living room with them.
This never would have happened if we had gone to Moose Lake, Minn., like I had suggested. The only thing Moose Lake has going for it that I know of is a gratuitous reference in a VeggieTales video.
Our Arizona vacation was supposed to help me unwind from work and keep my sanity. Instead, my mind is slipping faster and faster into an Earpocentric dementia. Instead of beginning to assemble timeless memories, I've begun to assemble psychoses to unload to a licensed therapist.
Next time we go on vacation, we're going someplace without a history, even if it means I have to carry Natasha all the way to Moose Lake myself.
Copyright © 2010 by David Learn. Used with permission.
Now many people think of Arizona as a desert state with a lot of sand and a lot of cacti. While that has some truth to it, Arizona also is home to the only pothole in the Union -- The Grand Canyon -- bigger than the one at the corner of Sandford Street and Commercial Avenue in New Brunswick, N.J.
The Grand Canyon is a truly inspiring site, carved through solid rock so we are told over millennia by the Colorado River, which in turn has the most dangerous and exciting rapids to go rafting on.
The colors at the Grand Canyon at sunset defy description. It is as though God creates a new master painting each evening, and when he calls the stars forth one by one, you are humbled to see how amazingly small and finite you really are.
I would go on, but I've never been to the Grand Canyon. Instead, we visited another site Arizona is famous for, the OK Corral. (Not to be confused with that famous church hymn, "The OK Chorale.")
The gunfight at the OK Corral probably is history's best-known and best-loved shoot-out. It's got all the elements of a crowd-pleaser. It's got guns. It's got bullets. It's got dead bodies piled up sky-high. It's got the law fighting the bad guys, and winning. Best of all, it's (relatively) true.
So it's no surprise that the gunfight has appeared in movies like the 1993 film "Tombstone" and the imaginatively named 1957 film "Gunfight at the O.K. Corral," and in episodes of "Star Trek," "Dr. Who" and "Mr. Peabody."
If you believe Hollywood's rendition of Wyatt Earp, the late federal marshal was a hero who fought the cowboy gang and ended the reign of the lawless wealth-makes-right in the Old West.
This is a lie. That was not accomplished until 1985 in Clint Eastwood's "Pale Rider."
Wyatt Earp actually was little different from the Clantons and McLaurys, whom he, his brothers and Doc Holliday, fought at the OK Corral. The chief difference was that the Earps and Doc Holliday had badges. Otherwise, they pretty much were the same kind of thugs as the Clantons, except that Doc Holliday may have been even meaner.
Of course, it's hardly surprising that Hollywood would treat Wyatt Earp less than accurately. After all, "Tombstone" showed Val Kilmer's Doc Holliday firing a 12-gauge shotgun no fewer than three times without reloading, a task only slightly more believable than Gene Kelly getting 30 shots from a six-shooter, Roy Rogers shooting the guns from the desperadoes' hands, or a certain other cowboy actor being elected president.
Ironically, nearly every movie about the OK Corral was filmed, not at Tombstone, but more than an hour away in Old Tucson Studios. Still, Tombstone draws enough tourists that the city government has made it illegal to ask, "What would you like on your Tombstone?" when you are standing in the frozen pizza aisle.
Tombstone has other history outside the Earps, including a haunted mine and two fires that nearly destroyed the town, but everything seems to run back to Wyatt Earp in the end. The ghost story is tied to the basement of Big Nose Kate's Saloon, where "The Legend of the Swamper" is the subject of a free pamphlet. A 17-page booklet about Wyatt Earp (there he is again) and Doc Holliday costs $5.
One clothing store boasts it used to be the saloon where Wyatt Earp (there he is again) ran a gambling table for playing faro. Other places are identified as the office Doc Holliday used while he still practiced medicine, the room where Big Nose Kate lived (the prostitute who also was Doc Holliday's girlfriend), where the Clanton brothers were buried, where Morgan Earp (there's his brother) was killed, and on and on.
Over by the OK Corral is the a photo gallery of work by C.S. Fly, the photographer of the Old West who took the famous pictures we have of Geronimo, the Apache Indians, Tombstone after the fires, other parts of the Old West and Wyatt Earp. (There he is again.)
It got to the point that when I used the bathroom at Big Nose Kate's Saloon (built on the site of the Grand Hotel, where the Clantons and McLaurys stayed the night before the gunfight), I half-expected to see a sign identifying the urinal that Wyatt Earp used when he'd had too much to drink.
It gets overwhelming after a while.
Natasha, her mother, Evangeline and I were in Tombstone for less than a day, but I can't help it. I've developed an obsession with Wyatt Earp. I've told everyone I could about my trip to Tombstone and what I learned about him.
It's not enough. I have an overwhelming compulsion to run out and buy copies of "Tombstone," "Gunfight at the O.K. Corral" and "My Darling Clementine" on video and watch all three of them sequentially and concurrently. I want to buy the movie posters and decorate my living room with them.
This never would have happened if we had gone to Moose Lake, Minn., like I had suggested. The only thing Moose Lake has going for it that I know of is a gratuitous reference in a VeggieTales video.
Our Arizona vacation was supposed to help me unwind from work and keep my sanity. Instead, my mind is slipping faster and faster into an Earpocentric dementia. Instead of beginning to assemble timeless memories, I've begun to assemble psychoses to unload to a licensed therapist.
Next time we go on vacation, we're going someplace without a history, even if it means I have to carry Natasha all the way to Moose Lake myself.
Copyright © 2010 by David Learn. Used with permission.
Tuesday, June 27, 2000
Identifying the real Lucers among us
I used to think that if you wanted to offend someone, you had to do something, well, offensive. Something like feeding them soup made with Puppy Chow, playing "Elton John's Greatest Hits" over and over again, or e-mailing them copies of a column you write.
I've been set straight on that score. Apparently, all you have to do is make a movie that satirizes them, their favorite TV show and the actors from that TV show, and they'll get offended. They get even more offended if you do it well.
In this case, my friend told me how offended he was by "Galaxy Quest," a movie that does all those things for Star Trek, when I casually remarked that I had seen it had been released on videotape and was hoping to buy a used copy when one became available.
My friend, who regularly reminds me that "Trekkies" are the really far-out fans and that "Trekkers" is the preferred term for fans who don't require medication, wasn't amused by the movie. In fact, he was a little put off.
"Why does everyone like to pick on Star Trek fans?" he demanded angrily. "We're not freaks. We just like good sci-fi."
I avoided the obvious cheap shot -- that people make fun of us because it's so easy -- and conceded that he had a point. Trekkies -- excuse me, Trekkers -- love lots of good science fiction, including the novels of Larry Niven, shows like "Babylon 5," and other great epics, like "Zombies of the Stratosphere."
My friend was absolutely right. Trekkies -- sorry, I mean Trekkers -- clearly have been the victims of a media smear campaign.
But if Star Trek fans aren't the geeks we've always thought, then who is? Because there are a lot of geeks in the world, and they have to belong to some easily identifiable group. That's how it works, and a TV show is a good a basis for the designation as anything else.
After giving the matter a lot of thought, I finally realized the truth. The TV show that has inspired unthinkable levels of zaniness and belief-defying antics from its fans is "I Love Lucy." Those are the real freaks among us, not the Save our Sesame Street militia, not the politicians, not the newspaper editors and columnists, and certainly not the Trekkies. (Trekkers. Sorry.)
In its time, "I Love Lucy" has spawned no fewer than three sequels -- "Lucy and Ricky," "The Lucy Show" and "Here's Lucy" -- that continued in the same tried-and-true formula as the original, with little fresh creative spark to make them stand out.
Star Trek can't ever compare to that.
The Lucy phenomenon is the driving force behind massive conventions within Lucy fandom. These events happen regularly, and draw attendees from hundreds of miles away, who come dressed as their favorite characters. They even have contests among redheads to see who looks the most like Lucy. Sick, sick, sick!
And then there's the real whacked-out fans who know unhealthy amounts of trivia about "I Love Lucy," including the names of bit characters, other shows those actors appeared in, original episode air dates, entire runs of dialogue and the backstage quarrels of the actors.
While we're at it, let's not forget Barbara Adams, the woman dismissed from jury duty on the Whitewater trial in Little Rock, Ark., because she kept coming to court dressed like Little Ricky, complete with a miniature bongo drum. Reports even have it that her co-workers call her "Junior."
Actually, I'm surprised it took me so long to finger the Lucy fans as such oddballs. The Lucy phenomenon has been documented quite thoroughly in the media. Pop culturalists have written books about the zany antics of "Lucy" fans and the strong political themes the show addressed.
For a show from the early days of television, fans say, "I Love Lucy" confronted several major issues of its day. There was an episode about U.S.-Cuba relations, dealt with through a clever parallel built around uranium mining, another episode about McCarthyism, and a third about the rising price of toilet paper.
And then there's the infamous honor's thesis, written in college by someone whose name I have forgotten, about the religious themes of "I Love Lucy," including the death of God, the return to Paradise and the failure of traditional religion.
It should be clear by now who the real losers are.
Trekkies -- I mean Trekkers -- you stand absolved of all charges of geekiness of which you formerly have been accused. The real geeks, clearly, are the Lucies.
Sorry. I mean the Lucers.
Copyright © 2000 by David Learn. Used with permission.
Tweet
I've been set straight on that score. Apparently, all you have to do is make a movie that satirizes them, their favorite TV show and the actors from that TV show, and they'll get offended. They get even more offended if you do it well.
In this case, my friend told me how offended he was by "Galaxy Quest," a movie that does all those things for Star Trek, when I casually remarked that I had seen it had been released on videotape and was hoping to buy a used copy when one became available.
My friend, who regularly reminds me that "Trekkies" are the really far-out fans and that "Trekkers" is the preferred term for fans who don't require medication, wasn't amused by the movie. In fact, he was a little put off.
"Why does everyone like to pick on Star Trek fans?" he demanded angrily. "We're not freaks. We just like good sci-fi."
I avoided the obvious cheap shot -- that people make fun of us because it's so easy -- and conceded that he had a point. Trekkies -- excuse me, Trekkers -- love lots of good science fiction, including the novels of Larry Niven, shows like "Babylon 5," and other great epics, like "Zombies of the Stratosphere."
My friend was absolutely right. Trekkies -- sorry, I mean Trekkers -- clearly have been the victims of a media smear campaign.
But if Star Trek fans aren't the geeks we've always thought, then who is? Because there are a lot of geeks in the world, and they have to belong to some easily identifiable group. That's how it works, and a TV show is a good a basis for the designation as anything else.
After giving the matter a lot of thought, I finally realized the truth. The TV show that has inspired unthinkable levels of zaniness and belief-defying antics from its fans is "I Love Lucy." Those are the real freaks among us, not the Save our Sesame Street militia, not the politicians, not the newspaper editors and columnists, and certainly not the Trekkies. (Trekkers. Sorry.)
In its time, "I Love Lucy" has spawned no fewer than three sequels -- "Lucy and Ricky," "The Lucy Show" and "Here's Lucy" -- that continued in the same tried-and-true formula as the original, with little fresh creative spark to make them stand out.
Star Trek can't ever compare to that.
And then there's the real whacked-out fans who know unhealthy amounts of trivia about "I Love Lucy," including the names of bit characters, other shows those actors appeared in, original episode air dates, entire runs of dialogue and the backstage quarrels of the actors.
While we're at it, let's not forget Barbara Adams, the woman dismissed from jury duty on the Whitewater trial in Little Rock, Ark., because she kept coming to court dressed like Little Ricky, complete with a miniature bongo drum. Reports even have it that her co-workers call her "Junior."
Actually, I'm surprised it took me so long to finger the Lucy fans as such oddballs. The Lucy phenomenon has been documented quite thoroughly in the media. Pop culturalists have written books about the zany antics of "Lucy" fans and the strong political themes the show addressed.
For a show from the early days of television, fans say, "I Love Lucy" confronted several major issues of its day. There was an episode about U.S.-Cuba relations, dealt with through a clever parallel built around uranium mining, another episode about McCarthyism, and a third about the rising price of toilet paper.
And then there's the infamous honor's thesis, written in college by someone whose name I have forgotten, about the religious themes of "I Love Lucy," including the death of God, the return to Paradise and the failure of traditional religion.
It should be clear by now who the real losers are.
Trekkies -- I mean Trekkers -- you stand absolved of all charges of geekiness of which you formerly have been accused. The real geeks, clearly, are the Lucies.
Sorry. I mean the Lucers.
Copyright © 2000 by David Learn. Used with permission.
Tweet
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
